


I'd Rather Go Blind

by Hazbian



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor x Rosie, Alastosie, Asexual Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), BPD, Basically a lot of stuff happens, Blood Rituals, Bringing out the worst in each other, Cannibalism, Diary/Journal, F/M, Gratuitous diaristic prose, Mood Swings, Obsessive Love, Obsessive Rosie, Sexual Coercion, Shadows - Freeform, Stalking, Swing Dancing, Toxic Relationship, Unreliable Narrator, Vampirism, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29757138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazbian/pseuds/Hazbian
Summary: This story is taken from Rosie's diary entries, beginning in late-1950s Hell. When she meets Alastor, a new resident of the Colony, they bond over their mutual interests in music, literature and cannibalism. The reader is invited to judge for themselves just how balanced their "friendship" is.(Intended as a prequel to Rabbit Blood, though this can be read independently.)
Relationships: Alastor & Rosie (Hazbin Hotel)
Kudos: 6





	I'd Rather Go Blind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ReginaMangala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReginaMangala/gifts).



Please forgive the torn-out pages at the start of this journal… I am going to summate a number of diary entries and write from now on in more organized prose. 

I’ll continue to address you as Dear Diary --  _ mon copaine bien-aimé _ , how I have missed you! Here for me always, to capture the highs and lows. Apologies for the abandonment, but my life has been so frustratingly humdrum. The same story, day after day, week after week: keeping the store, growing herbs and failing to convince my so-called friends to see a show with me.

But at last I have a reason to write in you -- I am in love!!!

There is a delicious new creature in the Colony. A man with monocled (on the right) red eyes and sharp, dingy teeth. He must be new in these parts, for such a dc can’t have escaped my attention for long. The first sighting was at the butcher’s on Reaper Lane, on the 18th of April.

Something set him apart from other sinners. The confidence and decorum with which he carried himself, and a gorgeous smile. He had a paper under his arm, but I was too far away to see  _ which _ paper it was; it might have been a half-broadsheet. What a shame if this creature was partial to yellow journalism!

To give an impression of the entries I removed (ripping them from your memory in the process, dear diary!): for several days, I stalked the streets and hoped to see him again. For the first time in months, I took real care of myself. My girdles and corsets were washed, my hair was styled, and my shoes polished to a mirror-shine. Ah yes, dear diary -- your friend Rosie was back to her old self, her heart swelling with renewed hope and  _ joie de vivre _ ! 

It was the early stage of love, the pre-cynical stage in which none of my efforts are presumed to be in vain. Superstition is my keeper and instructs everything I do -- just for the chance of seeing my dc again!

Yes, I know it well.

The second sighting was on the 26th, and this time he looked at me. I passed him on the street while riding my bike. He wore a striped coat, beautifully tailored but threadbare around the edges. It’s hard to describe the pleasant little heart-stab I felt as our eyes met. Sometimes, when you are taken with a man’s beauty, you forget there’s a life inside of him, peering out. This was my first good look at it, and only made him more beautiful.

I wanted to pump the brakes and say hello, but he was in a hurry somewhere, and Superstition was chattering in my ear:  _ I cannot annoy him on the first meeting! _ This must be fastidiously planned, I thought. First impressions and all that! That evening I dragged out every unsightly article of clothing from my closet, and burned them in the garden. 

I wanted to pour myself onto the page and describe him, but I couldn’t! The picture of him in my mind was woefully incomplete. All I could think about was his tattered coat-tail, and how much I wanted to patch it up.

Days passed, unfortunately, without another sighting. I wanted for a pair of binoculars, and the cynicism was creeping in. Wasn’t I being ridiculous? It had only been two sightings, and Rosie was mired in her feelings, like a clumsy bull-elk stuck in a swamp. 

There was little else to report. I spent the time scouting new items of furniture for the store, and found a wardrobe which needed only minor restoration. However, the seller tried to foist a counterfeit timepiece off on me, and I took him to task -- rather more violently than I meant to. Sally was pissed-off, because we’d have to get the ceiling washed. Between you and I, dear diary, Sally is horribly shrewish at times. It shouldn’t have mattered -- my shadows can clean the ceiling! 

To get back on-topic… I tried the butcher-shop every day, in hopes of seeing Dc. Every day, I had a nice bit of bacon or lamb -- it’s only polite, after all, to patronize a shop when you visit so frequently -- but no sign of my favorite!

More antique-store nonsense: a new oak refectory table, phone orders, inventory... dull, _dull,_ DULL!! But then I had my third sighting, right at the end of the month! My Dc was walking into Darcy’s club carrying a saxophone case, so I followed him in and lurked by the bar. As I sat nursing a shot of brandy, he was talking to the owner in pleasant and familiar terms, only a little nervously.

“I’ll leave this here, if it’s all the same to you,” said Dc.

I nearly died, dear diary. His voice! It was so clean and distinguished, dwelling upon the vowels in that trans-Atlantic way. It reminded me of James Stewart (a former crush, if you recall), and it told me something about this man, this creature… he has had some kind of education. He must be a performer, I thought.

“We can put it in the lockbox,” offered Darcy.

“Thank you! Been a spate of break-ins in my neighborhood,” said Dc. “If my place is burglarized, they’ll whip that away and you’ll be down one saxophonist!”

He laughed, and the owner didn’t join him. (Joyless bastard!)

If you remember from the last book I filled, dear diary, I  _ adore _ musicians. Personally, I blame Reggie the Trombonist for my somewhat fixed map of romantic interest. If only I’d had an interesting remark to give in the moment! Something about music, or his neighborhood, or anything besides  _ nothing!  _ And then my Dc had swept out, and it was too late.

On this day, the 31st, the picture of him remained incomplete. It is so hard to complete a picture when you’re trying to view someone inconspicuously. Forget binoculars -- on that day, I wanted sun-cheaters to hide my gaze! But I glimpsed his beautiful hands. Dc has long, delicate fingers which peter into sharp tips. I could imagine him spearing grapes onto his claws to eat. Then I imagined feeding him grapes myself, and then I  _ had _ to imagine a cold spray of water to calm down!

Darcy noticed me as I combed the floor for brilliant-red hairs, but said nothing. He knows better.

That night I had some of the meat I’d been stockpiling, and dreamt about my favorite. (Sidenote, the word ‘dreamt’ is my favorite word! It’s the only word in the English language which ends with -mt (excepting the derivatives), and it evokes such a coziness to me personally.) I’m happiest when I dream. Even with all my powers, the reality of Hell is so often disappointing; but in my dreams, I am truly sought-after and beloved. I am close to others. I am with my favorites.

For a while, I was ready to abandon you again, dear diary. There was an interval of almost a fortnight with no more sightings. So many wasted hours outside the butchers’, and at Darcy’s, making three drinks last a whole evening, and no luck! It was so hideously embarrassing. I hate to feel like a fool, and cynicism was getting the best of me. Everyone around me felt it. My shadows became furtive. My herbs shrank. Sally trip-trapped around the store in careful silence. 

I could not  believe I had burned my clothes for this man. Washed my undergarments for him -- a man who didn’t know I existed! Classic Rosie! 

But then, just as hope seemed lost… we had our first meeting. The 14th of May, dear diary. It is marked on our mutual friend, the calendar; and I will mark it on next year’s as well, in hopes that we’ll be together then, to reflect on a year of loving kinship.

His name is  _ Alastor!  _ I intend to research its meaning, of course... but do I need to? I know what it means to me, dear diary. It evokes a warrior from a long-dead civilisation, yet to surrender his spear… a force to be reckoned with.  _ Alastor. _ It calls to mind an owner of some dusty vineyard, with a knowing, archaic grin on his face.  _ Alastor! _ If French were a kind of music, his name would be a plinking, three-note  _ jeu d’esprit _ . I could be wrong about all this, and perhaps his name means nothing special… but I know what it is to me. It is poetry. It is beautiful.

Oh, forgive me, diary, I am so in love.

It took a while of waiting outside the butcher-shop, but finally I saw him enter, carrying another newspaper. I followed him in, actually savoring the humid, cloying stench of meat. He was looking thoughtfully over the counter.

(Excuse my penmanship, but I am eager to finally write this!)

For so long I’d wondered what I would say to him… You would have been so proud, dear diary. I glanced at the headline of his paper, and it was about Vox throwing one of his tantrums. Of course, I know the man by association. In recent years, our group has had a friendly contest to take the most power, and Vox and I are in the lead.

So I cleared my throat and spoke to Alastor.

“Terrible thing,” I said, indicating the front page, “but not surprising, I’m afraid!”

“What?” Alastor glanced at it. “Oh…”

“I have  _ told _ that man to keep his top,” I added, tutting, “but would he listen?”

Alastor -- still a Dc at this point, still a nameless beauty -- nodded his head and regarded the counter again. So I asked if he came here often, and what was he getting, to give me some ideas? And the butcher kept his mouth shut, bless him! Wouldn’t do to reveal that I’d been in and out of that shop like a fiddler’s elbow!

Then (!!!) Alastor and I swapped names, and he shook my hand. I always appreciate that! All that practiced hand-kissy stuff we ladies are subjected to... so tedious. Anyway, he pointed me towards the venison (a funny point on which I will elaborate). I’ve only ever tried veal before, and was afraid this wouldn’t be quite as tender. But it is Alastor. Whatever he recommends, I will eat -- be it venison, sweetbreads, silverskin, or the bone intended for the butcher’s dog. Still, I made an attempt at humor, telling him that he’d be in trouble if I didn’t like it!

I wanted to invite him to dinner… but Superstition talked me down. It is too soon, and I don’t want to risk anything. Besides, my fridge at home abounds with meat products, and if he noticed that, he might wonder why I was buying venison! 

When he left, I span in giddy circles like a school-girl! I even kissed the butcher, which was certainly a surprise to him.

Now I can give a description of my favorite. There are still gaps to be filled, but I cannot wait another moment. I could write for pages about his eccentric beauty! First of all, his skin is… well, beautiful, of course! It’s like mushroom soup -- the kind you make yourself, not that filth from a can. Even as I write, I imagine lifting his head like a vase and drinking that warm, earthen silkiness. 

Next, his eyes. Alastor’s eyes are deeply, richly scarlet and often shrewd, but alive. Heavy, dark lashes. His teeth: I explained above they are sharp and dingy… of course, the nature of demonological coloring is impossible to explain, but I like that yellow color. It suggests a hidden vulgaric nature; as if to say, he eats uncleanly. I hope we’re not so different in that regard. And he smiles so often -- whether bustling on the street or talking shop with Darcy, even talking to yours truly -- I believe he’s incapable of making any other face! 

Alastor’s hair is wispy, long around the jaw, and making soft ears around a pair of black-velvet antlers. (That is the funny part! What is a deer-demon doing, telling me Eat Venison?) He cuts a thin figure which he tries to disguise with high padded shoulders, and a flared coat-tail which conceals his hind-quarters (shame!!). He has good shoes, good dress, good breeding. He’s almost  _ too _ thin, but his skeleton is not overbearing -- just right, in fact. Tolkien might’ve classified him as an elf.

That is all for now. Adieu, my friend, until I have more to write in you… but I’m glad to expunge all previous entries, bloated with the minutiae of my days without him. From now on, he deserves the finest prose I can muster. He deserves to have his speech written in stone (or paper - close enough!) This one -- Alastor -- deserves nothing less than my total adulation. 

I love love love this creature!


End file.
